


Curiosity Killed the Cat

by stark_nakedness



Series: Talk to the Plate [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Community: muncle, Dont quote me on the mechnics of everything and how stuff works, Freeform, Gaby Teller freeform, Gaby and Napoleon are good friends, Gaby tries to talk with Solo but he isn't having any of it, Gaby wants to help, Gen, Hurt Napoleon, I just needed some kind of stew and for some reason this one stuck, I took liberties when writing this, Napoleon Solo - Freeform, Napoleon Solo is a badass, Napoleon Solo is a badass with Knives, Napoleon Solo loves to cook, Napoleon has a past, Napoleon has secrets, Napoleon uses food as a distraction, Pre Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Protective Gaby Teller, Protective Napoleon Solo, Real slow, Slow Burn, Sunday Stew, The food itself is very loosely based, like i said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9917795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stark_nakedness/pseuds/stark_nakedness
Summary: The sight of blood is like setting a rogue match aflame. It's almost as if a chemical reaction has been set off, and Solo’s rage ignites into a roaring fire. He's no longer a little child. This time he can fight back.Or a few weeks after the mission Napoleon is still acting shifty. Gaby plans to talk to him about it. What she doesn't plan for is Solo's next dish. Truthfully, she should know better by now.- second installment in the Talk To the Plate series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was wanting to do a oneshot based on an idea of - 5 times Solo distracted his team with food and the one time he didn't. So this is kinda loosely following that in a broader sense. Otherwise, I'm just writing for fun.  
> I've been intrigued by Solo's potential history and that's kinda been dominating the tone of this series thus far. It kinda twisted into something a little darker than I originally intended, but I have faith all will work out in the end.  
> Comments, kudos, and bookmarks welcome. Please no flaming or anything uneccessary. I do some research for the basics, but nothing extensive. So if anything is off, feel free to point it out. Thanks, and enjoy!

* * *

“ _Cowboy, move!”_

_Despite the harsh slap of words against his ears, he remained immobile a split second too long for Peril's taste. A shove in the back jolted him forward. Enough to narrowly miss the bullet whizzing through the air, yet still too close for comfort. Even with the threat of death so close, his feet remained rooted to the floor._

_He couldn't help it. The sight of this man swinging his fist at Gaby was enough to send his stomach plummeting. Memories of a similar situation surfaced,_ _and for a moment he was just a little boy standing lost in a flat in New York. His father looming over his dazed mother. His fist raised in threat of another blow being made. Knuckles cracked, with lips pulled thin over knashing teeth, and spittle flying from a foul mouth. The weight of a broad hand squeezing his face against the wall, until the creak of bones splintering echoed within his ears. Screams of pain, anger, and terror. A deep and primal hate seeding itself within his chest, waiting to be thawed and unleashed._

 _The smack of a Thrush agent's knuckles grazing against Gaby's cheek finally snapped him out of it._ _The hit was made with enough force to break skin, and the sight of blood was like setting a rogue match aflame. It was almost as if a chemical reaction had been set off, and Solo’s rage soon ignited into a roaring fire. He was no longer a little child standing in the sidelines. This time he would fight back._

_He vaguely registered the grunt of Illya shaking off a handful of gaurds who were trying to grapple for control. A single shout of warning was directed his way, but Napoleon paid it no heed. He was already on the move. Whipping out a knife from the lapel of his suit, he easily slipped it between the thugs ribs and finished the attack before it could even start. Blood frothed from between the man's lips, a lone gurgle having sprayed the liquid against his cheek. A single exhale of control and Solo was already pulling the knife back with a grunt. The body slumped to the floor without another thought. Mouth set in determination, he pinched the blade between his thumb and the second knuckle of his index finger. Curling his hand into a fist he adjusted his stance, took aim, and then struck._

_The thunk of metal piercing flesh preceded the howl of pain, and Gaby took the opportunity to strike. Elbow to the chin, and a well placed kick to the groin had the man writhing on the floor in submission. It wasn't enough for the thief. He wanted this man to feel more pain. To feel the anguish he inflicted upon Gaby, his mother and countless other victims. Common sense told him that this man wasn't his father, yet the rage within didn't care._

_He had to fight to keep calm. A single deep breath and a clench of his fists had him falling into a more relaxed stance. He couldn't lose control. Ignoring the wary looks his partners were giving him, he dutifully began to collect his blade and neatly wiped it off on the clothing of the man he'd hit. He knew he was acting strange, but he didn't have it within himself to muster a single quip, or grin of satisfaction. Right now Napoleon Solo was just a man from New York. Not a thief. Not a spy. Not an agent from U.N.C.L.E_.  _Giving them both a curt nod, he made his way toward the exit._

_“We don't have much time,” was all he said before slipping back into the darkness of the tunnel they had come from. He didn't want to stick around for the questions. Some demons were better left untouched, and Napoleon was determined to keep it that way._

* * *

The memories of their mission haunted Napoleon in his sleep. Sometimes they would be perfect recollections of the previous events. Other times it would morph and merge with past experiences. Bright colors of crimson intertwining with a black ink of despair. It was enough to make him jolt awake in a sweat, with his heart pounding, and the indents of half moons marking his palms. 

It hadn't been this bad in years. He'd had the wayward bad dream every now and then, sure, but it was never bad enough to where he'd lose continuous amounts of sleep. Dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes, and he could tell the others were growing concerned. It was getting tiresome trying to evade their 'subtle' means of intervention. 

Just the other day Illya had offered to play cards and indulge in some scotch with Napoleon. "For fun," He had claimed. Solo would have laughed if he weren't so tired. 

Truth be told, even he didn't understand what was going on. Something had changed to where these past torments were rearing their ugly head without warning. He'd been feeling trapped and caged ever since the mission, and he just wished to be left alone. Easier said than done when he was stuck with two of the most persistent people he had yet to meet. Next to Waverly that is. 

  
“Napoleon,” the soft-spoken utterance of his name had him tensing in surprise. Both from the word itself and the unexpectedness of it. He hadn't heard his full name since Victoria. Since he was a little boy with his mother after-

“Gabrielle,” he shot back with an even tone. There was no teasing lilt in her voice, which meant that she wanted to talk about something he would rather avoid. He bit back a grimace, and quickly moved to turn on the stove in an age old reflex. He forced himself to relax, before sweeping the dark thoughts running through his head under the proverbial rug. He could turn this into a harmless little game if he so wished. Interrogation was old hat, and he easily knew how to keep things from entering into too dark of waters. He was Napoleon Solo after all, and he had the perfect distraction. 

He tilted his head in acknowledgment as she huffed out a breath in annoyance. “You know I hate it when you do that. It's Gaby and nothing else. No Abby, Elle, or _Gabrielle_.” He watched out of the corner of his eye as she frowned in reprimand; her lower lip puckering slightly in an unconscious effort to make her seem all the more delicate and upset. He knew for a fact it was a lie. The woman had a vicious right hook and the mouth of a sailor to go along with it. Most times she enjoyed playing games, and claimed that the role of being ‘fragile’ was fun. Especially when it allowed her an advantage during tense situations like the one last week. He shook his head to try and forget. 

“I could argue the same thing,” he answered flippantly. His attention already being commandeered by the broth he was preparing in the pot. Once he was satisfied that it would warm properly, he moved on to gather some onions, beef, and any other viable greens that had been previously stocked.

“Of course you would,” she remarked dryly. He paused to give her a brief winning smile. The steam from the stove began to waft across his features and he could feel the moisture clinging to his cheeks. It acted as a balm for his restless nature.

“Are you making Eintopf?” she asked suddenly. By the tone of her voice, and minute widening of her eyes, she was a mixture of delighted and surprised. Solo quirked a brow noncommittally.

“Hmmm, yes. Seeing as how I used most of the produce for the Borscht the other day, I figured I couldn't go wrong with the traditional ‘rags and fleas’ dish for now. At least until Waverly deems trips to the market acceptable.” He grumbled the last bit in slight annoyance. She hummed in sympathy. Life cooped up was not a life at all.

“I haven't had such soup from my country in forever,” Gaby pointed out matter of factly, before lifting her face to sniff at the growing aroma. Her lids fluttered shut in response, and Solo suddenly itched to have a pencil in hand in order encapsulate the picture on paper. He opted for grabbing the ladle instead.

“Technically this derived from the Irish, but I'll humour you at the moment.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Well technically Eintopfsonntag was instigated by Hitler himself. I wouldn't think an American man such as yourself would be too keen with this particular Sunday Stew. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I'd say that he was a horrid man, and no food deserves to be tainted by his ill actions. I can't recall how many times such soup saved my men and I from starvation.” Her face turned solemn at his words, and then... thoughtful.

“Who taught you?” she asked after a moment of comfortable silence. He didn't need to ask her to elaborate. Gaby was more open and friendly than Illya in most regards, and Napoleon had grown fond of her despite his better judgment. There was no use getting attached when he knew that he'd be returning to New York sooner or later. It’d only make him feel more alone and isolated in the end. Yet, he couldn't help the spark of friendship that had ignited between them. He gave her a sharp smirk.

“You do know that it's known as the rag and fleas soup for a reason. The recipe is not terribly hard. Broth filled with some meat and random vegetable scraps. Didn't I rescue you from Germany? One would think you'd be well acquainted with the dish,” he quipped with a teasing lilt. Gaby let out a delighted laugh, and he gave her a dashing smile in return.

Slowly she sobered up and quirked a brow in curiosity. “Why do you do that?”

“I do a great many deal of things. To which do you refer?”

“This-,” she waved a hand to encompass the entirety of the kitchen, “Cook meals that are much more complicated than some beans and rice that would just as easily tie us over. You know that Illya would eat anything, and I'm not particularly picky, so it isn't on our behalf.”

He merely hummed in acknowledgement before adding a few more ingredients for good measure. Stirring the soup, he scooped up some broth and presented the spoon to her as a gift. Her eyes narrowed in thought as she accepted the offering. It was thick and rich as it went down her throat. Her tongue delighted in the spices that Solo somehow slipped in without her notice, and she managed to refrain from humming in outright enjoyment. Instead she licked her lips clean and stated bluntly, “You use food as a distraction Mr. Solo.”

He wasn't the least bit perturbed, and it angered her to think that he'd gotten so good at keeping his secrets. His insecurities and demons locked away so tightly, that it was second nature for him to deflect and redirect. He merely quirked a brow and placed the utensil in the sink.

“And you, my dear Gaby, are too inquisitive for your own good,” he rebuked lightly as he wiped his hands down the front of his apron. The muscles beneath his sleeves flexed with the movement and her eyes focused on it briefly before flicking back up to his face.

“Perhaps, but I find that it suits me just fine,”

“There's a popular proverb about curiosity killing the cat,” His brow furrowed in mock sympathy, the tilt of his chin reminisce of a man relaying terrible news. Gaby was not fooled.

“Don't tell me you've forgotton how satisfaction brought it back?”

And it was as if the clouds had parted and the sun was free to shine freely. His eyes sparkled with mirth and a true grin cut across his features. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. She had never been privileged to see more than a sly grin or wayward smirk. The mood was infectious and she couldn't help but chuckle as well.

Too soon the twinkle of joy subsided and a bowl was being pushed in front of her. A stab of disappointment was quickly replaced with a swell of gratitude. The scent alone was enough to make her mouth water.

“Tell Peril that there's plenty for him as well.” She paused and looked at him critically. She knew the statement for what it was. He was trying to avoid the Russian and was fishing for hints as to where he might be. She could tell him the whole truth or…

“I'm sure once he's finished with his report he’ll come around.” While not necessarily a lie, she had opted to omit the part of his exact location. Solo would assume Illya had isolated himself in the living room like usual. Therefore he would avoid staying indoors in attempt to skirt the other agent’s own interrogation. She twirled a spoon in her bowl and frowned at him.

“And where might you be running off to?” she asked despite her knowledge. 

“Not much to explore in this house I'm afraid, but I believe the weather is splendid this time of the day. A walk will do me good.” She almost felt guilty for leading him right to the wolf’s den. Almost - having been the key word. Before she could protest any further, he was already bidding her farewell and walking out the door.

She chewed her food thoughtfully, a bubble of frustration and concern eating away at her mind. It was with a small huff of indignation that she realised he had avoided her question completely. She had intended to make him talk about what had been bothering him this past week. She wasn't deaf. She could hear the thumps and agonized groans coming from his room - nightmares. He had been pensive and agitated and she wanted nothing more than to comfort such a restless soul. She gave a small sigh of exhaustion. Perhaps Illya would have better luck.


End file.
